


The Losers

by wingsofbadass



Series: Love Is A Losing Game [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Or Is It?, Unrequited Love, Volleyball, angsty sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 14:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6426895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofbadass/pseuds/wingsofbadass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever they lose a match, Jean turns to Marco for comfort. And Marco just can't say no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Losers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theisles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theisles/gifts).



> Dylo, I'm sorry for turning our cute hurt/comfort headcanon into this angst fest. Okay, no, I'm not.
> 
> As always, thank you to Poppy for the help and support in writing as well as life.

Marco shouldn't feel excited.

The final shrill of the whistle is nothing but a mortifying formality and it's nearly swallowed up by the thunderous roar of the crowd. Dazedly, Marco stares at the scores, his mind barely comprehending the minimal difference between the numbers, but his heart is heavy with the way his team is scattered across the court like garbage that spilled from a trash can, while the Shiganshina team has merged into a sweaty pile of pure joy on the other side of the net. Marco averts his gaze.

He can't seem to persuade his pulse to slow, his breath to even, because it's over and there is no need to fight any more.

Cooling sweat has pooled at the bottom of Marco's throat, along his collar bones, and he raises the edge of his jersey to wipe it. Next to him, Connie has let himself sink to the floor, tears burning in his eyes. Sasha presses a water bottle into Marco's hand with a wordless smile that doesn't quite manage to cover her own disappointment, which he finds greater comfort in than he thought possible.

Jean's tense shoulders are rising at falling with the deep breaths he's sucking into his lungs, but other than that he's quite motionless. He seems transfixed as he stares at the players from Shiganshina University who have hoisted their loudly whooping ace onto their shoulders.

With leaden feet, Marco moves to stand beside Jean. He knows he's unable to offer any solace in the form of words, so he wraps an arm around Jean's shoulders and pulls him against his side; a casual gesture he hopes won't injure Jean's pride as much as a hug might.

It's still too much. Jean tears away from the touch and when he looks at Marco, his eyes are aflame with loss and humiliation and want. What his mouth spits out, however, is heartbreaking anger.

“This is bullshit!”

Marco shouldn't feel excited.

Jean is the first to storm off the court and into the locker room, his slender frame shivering as though unable to contain the anguish raging inside it. Nobody speaks as they shower and pretend not to hear the sobs spilling out of mouths and swirling away into the drain. And Jean is the first one out of the showers, skin flushed red from hot water and furious scrubbing, eyes clear.

As their captain, it's Marco's job to find comforting, encouraging words for his team, but he barely knows what he's saying. He's heartsick for their dream of winning this tournament, missing a victory they never had, and his mind is full of Jean and his beautiful fury. He sends everyone home with a smile.

As though anticipating what Marco might try as soon as they're alone, Jean busies himself with zipping up every single pocket of his gym bag, even the empty ones he usually doesn't bother with. With a sigh, Marco moves his arms around Jean's waist and presses against his tense back.

“It's okay,” Marco breathes and closes his eyes, letting himself be soothed by the proximity, by the fresh scent of shampoo and soap, by the firm lines of Jean's body. Jean doesn't shove him away this time, but he doesn't return the caress either.

“Let's just go,” he says, voice too empty of emotion to fool Marco.

The walk to Marco's car is quiet. Jean keeps his eyes on the ground, half of his face buried in the collar of his Trost University jacket and so Marco remains silent while the anticipation sits simmering in his veins.

“Where to?” he asks, casual, as he starts the engine and backs out of the parking lot.

Jean thinks for a moment, like he doesn't give the same answer each time, before replying. “Your place.”

*

As always, Jean's first kiss is vicious.

Marco is shoved against the door of his apartment as soon as he's closed it and then Jean's mouth is on his. Jean's lips are hungry, starving, but not for Marco. They kiss with a bruising desperation that is mirrored in the way their hands tug and tear at each other. Within moments, their breathing is harsh, the sound familiar to their ears from being on the court together and from this, and they pant into each other's needy mouths as the kiss deepens.

The heaviness in Marco's heart lifts with every wet glide of their tongues and now he can feel it soar with the relief of finally kissing Jean again. Greedy, he let's his hands slide down to Jean's ass, grabbing and pulling him closer. Jean makes a rough sound of approval, digging his fingers into Marco's shoulders.

Desire consumes Marco with a suddenness he only ever experiences with Jean and now all he can think about is how badly he needs Jean on his dick. With a grunt, he tugs Jean's hips closer still to rub himself against them shamelessly through the flimsy fabric of their sweatpants. Jean breaks away from his mouth with a shaky sigh and lets his head fall back slightly as he grinds his hardening dick against Marco's. His face is so stunning like this, lips parted softly, eyes closed, that Marco can't bear to look at it.

So he attacks the creamy column of Jean's throat instead, closing his lips on a spot that's difficult to cover up, and sucks. Jean's hips stutter helplessly where he's almost riding Marco's thigh and some of the fight leaves his limbs, filling Marco with wild satisfaction. This is Jean, untamable wing-spiker Jean, storm front Jean who's slowly thawing in his arms.

“I want you,” Marco rasps against Jean's skin and because once isn't quite enough, he says it again. “I _want_ you.”

Jean kisses him again, his kiss like a snarl, all teeth and self-defense. With his hands, he holds Marco's jaw, angling it to his pleasing, so he can savage Marco's mouth with his own. Marco already feels ruined.

They move as one, stumbling over to the bedroom and crashing down on the bed together.

“I want you,” Jean rumbles up at Marco, eyes blazing, “to fuck me.”

There's a feeling like mourning in Marco's chest for the sentiment that lived and died in Jean's mouth, but it doesn't matter much when they're tearing clothes off each other. His insatiable mouth traces every path he finds on Jean's exposed skin, kissing, licking, sucking gluttonously. And Jean loves it, arches his gorgeous body into the touches with his impatient hands in Marco's hair, pressing Marco's mouth closer.

He trails deeper, in a pace that matches Jean's eagerness, so he can wrap his lips around Jean's hard dick. Jean's sighs accompany Marco's wet kisses along the side of the shaft, the swipes of his tongue along the silky skin. He wants to lose himself in this, in his worship of Jean, because this is all his aching heart can hope for. He moans raggedly as he mouths at Jean's balls, nips at them with his teeth to make Jean twitch.

But it's not enough. No matter how much he wishes he could take his time with Jean, he's too starved for every little bit of Jean he is being offered.

“Fuck,” Jean gasps as Marco swallows his cock down. Marco breathes in through his nose, hands on those slender hips, ignoring his own solid dick for the sake of touching Jean. The weight on his tongue, the thickness stretching his lips is so damn sexy, Marco groans unashamedly, before he pulls back a little and then sinks back down.

His craving for Jean is unbearable. Marco sucks, hands urging at sharp hip bones, and Jean doesn't hesitate to thrust up into his mouth. Because Jean needs this, needs him and that knowledge is enough to make it all worth it. He can feel more tension melt from Jean's muscles, legs relaxing against the sheets and falling open slightly. Marco trails his palms down slowly, caressing along the insides of Jean's thighs, over soft blond hair.

The sound of a drawer being opened makes Marco pull off Jean's dick, breathing deeply and watching Jean produce the lube from the bedside cabinet. Wordlessly, he tosses it to Marco, before he lets himself slump back against the mattress.

“I'm gonna make you feel perfect,” Marco promises while he dribbles lube onto his fingers and then tosses the tube aside. Jean doesn't say anything. His hands dig into the bedding when Marco circles his entrance with the tip of his finger. That sign of nervousness makes Marco's stomach flutter with affection. He takes Jean's dick into his mouth again, coaxing him back into relaxation, before sinking in his middle finger.

Marco wants to take it slow, but Jean is still wound up, still longs for something to make him feel more intensely than what's burning in his chest, and so he rocks his hips in want. There is nothing Marco is weaker to than what Jean wants. He begins thrusting into Jean, mouth still hot on his dick, and Jean lets out a moan than makes Marco's heart surge with how naked it is.

What Jean wants is it to leave behind today's failure, to clear his thoughts of the self-loathing that haunts him with every loss. And who he turns to is Marco.

Letting Jean's cock slip from his mouth, wet and flushed, Marco straightens up a little to allow himself a better view of Jean's face. Sharp eyebrows scrunch a little in confusion, but then Marco presses a second finger in along with the first. He thrusts for a moment, their eyes locked, before curling his fingers into Jean's sweet spot.

Jean's mouth drops open with a loud moan, his eyes clouding over with the feeling. Marco presses, rubs mercilessly as he watches with hungry eyes how Jean melts into the sheets. His hips are motionless, like he's scared to lose the intense angle by moving. Amber eyes close finally and Jean throws his head back with gasping moans that only make Marco want to overwhelm him even more. He begins fucking Jean with his fingers, sinking in and out of his heat harshly. The wet sounds are so filthy that Marco can't help but rub himself against Jean's thigh, too turned on to bother with coordinating his other hand.

Precome spills from the tip of Jean's cock as brainless sounds spill from his lips and Marco knows, in that moment Jean is thinking of nothing but how _fucking good_ he's feeling. Marco is ridiculously proud, having reduced Jean to this state of non-thinking, of overpowering sensation only, and he doesn't stop, adds a third to keep fingering Jean more relentlessly.

The friction he's getting from rutting clumsily against Jean is too little, though. Marco feels like he's going to burst with this need he has for Jean and he groans brokenly. Jean is starting to twitch from the sharpness of what he's feeling, his hips moving mindlessly against Marco's hand, and he's so damn beautiful like this, Marco can barely stand it.

Carefully, he slows and then withdraws from Jean's ass.

Jean keeps moving his hips needily into nothing, still craving the way Marco drives all thought from his mind just as much as when they tumbled into this apartment. He's softer now, though. The fury has drained from his limbs. Even his lips are more gentle now, when Marco leans over him to kiss him. Words are on the tip of Marco's tongue, words he can't say, and he smothers them against the heat of Jean's mouth.

“Fuck me.” Jean's tone is commanding. His hands, however, are begging, squeezing Marco's ass and pulling their hips together.

With a hum, Marco breaks away from Jean's perfect lips and takes a condom from the drawer Jean had left open. He gasps when Jean grabs his dick, jerking him off tightly. It feels so good he could collapse on top of Jean.

“Jean,” he breathes as a warning or as an encouragement, he can't tell. He only realizes he let his head fall forward with the amazing sensation, when his forehead hits Jean's shoulder. “Oh, fuck.”

“Give me that.” Jean takes the condom from Marco's limp fingers and tears it open with his teeth, before slipping it onto Marco's cock easily. He grabs for the lube and strokes it onto Marco, messy, urgent.

Marco knows Jean is impatient, because he is, too. But he just can't help himself. He presses his lips against Jean's once more, pouring his adoration out, like Jean can't feel his heart singing a longing melody right where Jean's palm rests against his chest.

But then Marco straightens up, running palms down Jean's chest, over his stomach and finally over his thighs, bending them back. Jean flushes at being so exposed and Marco marvels at how much he's trusted, just for a moment, before guiding his dick against Jean's entrance. He presses the tip in and already he's moaning at how incredible Jean feels. Marco's fingers dig into the backs of Jean's thighs where he's still pressing them towards the mattress.

Seeing no sign of discomfort from Jean, Marco sinks in deeper and his lips fall open in unison with Jean's at the feeling. Jean is so overwhelmingly hot, gripping Marco's dick tightly as he spreads him open slowly with little thrusts until he bottoms out. There is a moment of stillness in which only their chests move with their gasping breaths, Jean's bright eyes locked on Marco's.

Desire roars to life in Marco's veins. He's not sure what change Jean sees in his face, but it elicits a smirk. Pulling back, Marco watches his dick slide almost all the way out of Jean's stretched hole, mesmerized by the sight, before plunging back in with a shaky breath. His next thrust is a more powerful one that makes Jean's dick jump on his stomach. Marco finds a rhythm soon, pounding into Jean hazily.

It feels so fucking good Marco almost feels like laughing. He rolls his hips against Jean's ass again and again, losing himself in the perfect squeeze around his cock. Jean's eyes are closed in pleasure and Marco watches him, for once not worrying about reining in the love he knows must be so obvious in his own. His gaze roams over teeth digging into a thin lower lip, over the slope of that throat, over elegant fingers scrabbling for purchase on the bedding.

Moans fill the air along with the regular slap of skin against skin as Marco fucks into Jean with a wild need. Jean. There's nothing but Jean on his mind, Jean and this heat that's begun to rise in him.

“Harder.” Jean swallows. “Harder, _please._ ”

There is no way Marco can deny Jean a damn thing. A weak sound leaves his throat as he lets his hands slide of trembling thighs and leans forward to hover over Jean. His palms sink into the mattress on each side of Jean and he snaps his hips forward hard. Jean's lashes flutter, his lips part around a broken moan.

“That want you need?” Marco asks, his voice unrecognizable to his own ears in it's roughness.

“Fuck yeah,” Jean breathes and his hands come up to cup Marco's ass, pulling him deeper.

What Marco needs is to kiss those lips, to pour out his aching heart, but he doesn't. He pulls his hips back and thrusts into Jean again, putting as much force into it as he dares, and Jean moans for him again. For him. And then, seeing Jean reduced to just feeling and not thinking is not enough. What Marco needs, desperately, is for Jean to feel only him, to think of nothing but _him_.

And then he's fucking Jean, really fucking him.

His pulse racing along his quick thrusts, Marco lets himself get lost in the hot friction of shoving himself into Jean over and over again. He can barely hear the sounds of their bodies crushing together rapidly or Jean moaning or even his own heavy breathing over the rush of blood in his ears. Jean feels incredible beneath him, around him, but he's still chasing more, craving more. It's like he's turning up the music more and more, but the volume never seems high enough to satisfy him.

A drop of sweat drips off the tip of Marco's nose and hits Jean's heaving chest, but he doesn't seem to notice. His face is twisted into an expression of such overwhelming pleasure that Marco can't help but feel another wave of primitive pride. He did this. As though becoming aware of Marco's searing gaze, Jean lets his hands fall from Marco's ass and slings an arm over his eyes. Marco wants to beg to see Jean's face, but the words get stuck in his throat.

Marco is ablaze with the pain of how far away Jean is, even now.

He's panting, moans ragged and teetering on the edge between pleasure and heartbreak. He gasps out Jean's name. Jean's moans grow louder in reply, the sound velvety and rich, and Marco wishes it were his own name floating from those lips. But as lost as Jean is in his pleasure, it's not Marco.

The way Marco's heart is pounding against his ribs is beginning to feel brutal, he can barely breathe, sweat is running down his spine. But he doesn't stop slamming into Jean, dizzying thrust after thrust into that tight heat. He's getting close, he can feel the pressure building, building, but he can't get there. His hands fist into the sheets, the only thing that feels safe to touch. He wants Jean so badly, he wants, he _wants_.

Marco wishes he could bring himself to close his eyes so he doesn't have to look at Jean not looking at him, but he's too weak.

With his free hand, Jean reaches for his leaking cock where it's lying heavily on his stomach and starts jacking himself off roughly. Immediately, Marco feels Jean tighten around him from the added stimulation and Marco whimpers pathetically at how amazing it feels. His thrusts are losing their power, their rhythm, as he fucks Jean with less and less self-control, but Jean doesn't seem to mind.

Jean's lean body is tensing up, pulling taut the way it does when he's close.

 _Come for me, please come for me_ , Marco thinks but doesn't dare say, because he can't bring himself to show just how desperate he is for Jean to be _his_.

And yet, as though he heard him, Jean throws his head back and comes. The hand near his face clenches around nothing as moans break in his throat and his release shoots in thick spurts onto his stomach. He's so damn breathtaking, shuddering and squeezing around Marco's dick, so gorgeous, and Marco _loves_ him, he loves him so fucking–

Marco comes almost silently, with his lips forming the _oohhh_ he won't let himself vocalize for fear his feelings might slip out after it. Only a choked gasp breaks free while his body is locked in powerful shock waves of bliss. Jean is still stroking himself, making himself twitch violently in his state of oversensitivity, so damn tight on Marco's dick that his own orgasm seems endless.

When the world comes back into focus, Marco gives into his weakness and leans down to press his lips to Jean's. His heart swells with relief as Jean returns the kiss, slipping his arm off his face and sinking both hands into Marco's sweaty hair. The movement of their lips and tongues are lazy but lingering, heavy with satisfaction. It can't last, though.

Jean breaks away to catch his breath and lets his hands fall to the mattress. With a leaden heart, Marco pulls out of Jean and then collapses beside him on the bed. As expected, Jean gets up immediately and vanishes into the bathroom.

Pressing the balls of his palms into his eyes, Marco tries to get his shit together. With every time it's getting harder for him to deal with his feelings, with the wide gap between what he longs for and what Jean is willing to give him. He should feel lucky he even gets to be close to the love of his life at all. But instead, all he feels is a nauseating fall from the high of orgasm. All he feels is lonely.

_Don't cry, not yet, not yet._

He hears the bathroom door open and quickly sits up, composes himself. Jean comes in and starts gathering and putting on his clothes without looking at Marco. The set of his eyebrows tells Marco he's thinking about the game again. But whatever had driven him into Marco's arms when the pain of losing was still fresh is gone now.

When there is nothing left to fuss with, Jean finally looks up at Marco, eyes full of heartache over having lost the tournament.

“Well, I guess I'll see you at practice,” he says.

It's a stupid thing to say and they both know it, but Marco doesn't call him on it. He also knows better than to ask him to stay or to offer to drive him home. They come to his place every time, after all, and nothing ever changes. Jean wants it this way.

So he just says “yeah.”

Tomorrow, Marco knows, they'll go back to what they always have been; teammates, best friends. But while Jean will shake off his grief and wounded pride, Marco's pain will remain raw with every minute spent together and he doesn't know how much more he will be able to take. Even now, Marco can feel his facade crumbling, can feel himself swaying dangerously like an exhausted wanderer and there's only so many stumbling steps he can take before he will collapse.

But Marco also knows that this will happen again and he will have neither the strength to say no nor the bravery to tell Jean how he feels. Because losing even this tiny taste of Jean is a risk he's not willing to take. 

As he watches Jean go, Marco wonders what Jean saw in his eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> I might continue this as a series of oneshots, because it hurts me to leave things like this between our boys. Let me know what you think! Kudos and comments in general are of course always very appreciated.
> 
> You can also come talk to me on tumblr or twitter, I'm wingsofbadass everywhere :)


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